


Kashmir

by drambuie11



Series: Province [3]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-25
Updated: 2011-06-25
Packaged: 2017-10-20 17:32:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/215272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drambuie11/pseuds/drambuie11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SLASH Dean/Xander. Sequel to Standing In The Doorway. After the destruction of Sunnydale, Dean is faced with his regrets, and his father.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cicada

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: These characters are the property of Joss Whedon, Sandollar, Mutant Enemy, Kuzui, David Greenwalt, Eric Kripke, Warner Bros, Wonderland, and a bunch of other people. I do not profit from this story, and no copyright infringement was intended. Story title from a song by Led Zeppelin. Cross-posted at Twisting the Hellmouth.
> 
> Spoilers for Supernatural season 1, Buffy season 7.

**1989**

 

They’d been living in West Pittston, taking care of one of the country’s more tenacious poltergeists. It had taken several months, and they’d actually been living in a house, for once.

One night, Dean’d been told to go to bed early. A few of his Dad’s old buddies, former Marines who lived in the area, were coming over to play poker around the kitchen table and reminisce.

Sammy was already in bed, but Dean didn’t want to sleep; he was ten years old, he was old enough to be up late. He’d crept out, tried not to be seen, but they caught him peeking around the kitchen door. They hauled him out, praising John on such a good-looking young kid. He’d called them all ‘sir’, and when he asked what kind of guns they had and they laughed at him, he'd tried not to be offended.

“Do you want to be a soldier like your Daddy?” one of them asked gruffly – his name was Bert. Bert was big, like a bear, and had red hair poking out the back of his Steelers cap.

“Yes sir,” Dean replied, with a look to his Dad. Instead of looking mad, John had a small smile on his face.

“Good boy,” crowed the one in the green business jacket, Karl. Karl sold cars now, but Dad had said he’d been his second-in-command. He was big, too, with a shiny bald head.

His Dad took hold of his arm, easing him out from Bert’s grip. “You run along, now, kiddo. Go watch some TV if you can’t sleep.”

He headed out of the kitchen, relieved his Dad hadn’t been pissed off. The fourth guy hadn’t said anything, but had refilled his shotglass twice in the time Dean had been in there. That meant he was probably drunk.

Dean watched TV for a while, then got up and turned the sound down. The men had started talking, tongues loosened by booze, and Dean was hoping to hear some Marines stories.

“Dammit, I swear…” The rest faded into a mumble. It was the fourth guy, the drunk one. Dean couldn’t remember his name – Bobo? Jocko? Something that wasn’t really a name.

“Yeah, I mean, what’s America coming to? This gay rights bullshit don’t belong in the country I fought for, that’s for sure,” Bert answered.

“All this crap about AIDS, and discrimination – did you know they can get married in Europe now?” It sounded like it wasn’t really a question, but Karl making a point.

“Fucking fags,” Bobo said venomously.

“It just ain’t Christian, is it? I mean, it says in the bible and everything,” Bert protested. Nobody disagreed with him, so he continued. “You know, I always wondered about Jenkins. Remember him?”

“That cocksucker,” Bobo muttered.

“Should’ve been kicked out of the corps. That sort don’t make a good soldier,” Karl concluded.

Dean listened carefully, but John never said a word. It must be true then – that sort mustn’t make a good soldier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from a song by Silverchair.


	2. And All That Could Have Been

**Present Day**

 

Dean sat up with a groan, dry-washing his face with both hands. It was late morning, but he had no idea why the hell he was awake so early.

His brother snored from the bed next to him. At least Sam was asleep; tussling with the reaper must have worn him out.

Dean was worn out, too. Despite the doctor’s clean bill of health, he wanted to rub his hand over his heart, check for himself that it was still beating. He suppressed the urge, though – didn’t want to be forming that kind of habit – and hauled himself out of bed. If he was awake, he might as well get up.

He yawned deeply as he pulled on his jeans, and followed quickly with a warm shirt. The morning air was surprisingly chilly, and he figured socks would be a good idea. Boots too, come to that.

Wandering over to the cheap, laminex table, he poked around in the almost-empty pizza box, and decided there was just enough left for breakfast. He picked up the last can of Coke, to wash it down with, and settled at the end of his bed for a few uninterrupted cartoons before Sam woke up.

He turned on the TV and started flicking channels, only to stop when he realised every local channel had a breaking news broadcast.

He stopped to watch for a second. A female anchor was standing in front of some fire trucks. Behind them, Dean could see a wide open space, like they were on a cliff and the ground just fell away all of a sudden.

The Coke can hit the floor with a thunk, but Dean barely registered the wet splash across his shoes.

 _Sunnydale Destroyed_. The subtitle on the screen was bright red on a white bar.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move or speak, couldn’t hear anything beyond the rush of blood in his ears.

Suddenly, sound came at him.

“Early this morning, a freak earthquake struck California, triggering a gas leak and an explosion that has completely levelled the small town of Sunnydale.”

Sunnydale. Alex.

“Geothermic instability in the area had recently prompted a mass evacuation of the town, so the casualties have been thankfully minimal. However, authorities have confirmed that there were still several citizens left in the area.”

Xander. Alex. He never would have left. Dean knew had to be something demon related, and Alex never would have left. He wouldn’t have left.

“A search is underway, but it seems likely that there are no survivors. The remains of several bodies have already been discovered in what is a shocking tragedy that will…”

The rest of the newsreader’s report was lost as that phrase echoed. No survivors. No, it couldn’t be possible. But he wouldn’t have left. No survivors. Xander was in it to the bitter end of that fucking town, and now...

No survivors. Bodies. Remains.

Xander was dead.

Dean felt like he’d just missed a step on the stairs – like he was falling. Even as he sat there on the bed, it felt like he’d been dropped off a cliff.

He couldn’t breathe. Abruptly he felt like he was about to be sick

But he couldn’t move, couldn’t tear his eyes away. Numb shock had taken over. His mind was going in circles.

The whole fucking town. No survivors.

Alex was gone.

Somehow, through his shock, he noticed when the picture on the TV changed. When his brain managed to process what he was looking at, though, he wished he hadn’t. They had started alternating a panning shot of the brand new Sunnydale canyon with some aerial ones from a helicopter. But the problem was the new subtitle on the bar onscreen, they’d changed it to read ‘Earthquake horror – no survivors’.

He flinched at the words. God, this couldn’t be real, couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t believe it.

He didn’t have to. He needed proof.

Before he could think twice about it, Dean staggered to his feet and stumbled across the room. Sam had slept through the whole thing, and Dean barely glanced his way. He yanked the door open, and, finally finding his legs, sprinted across the motel parking lot, the words ‘no survivors’ drumming an insistent chorus in his head.

The payphone down the street seemed like it was miles away.

He dug frantically in his pockets for change. His fingers were shaking too much to press the buttons. He took an unsteady breath, trying to force himself calm.

Buttons. He knew the phone number off by heart, all he had to do was press the buttons. Don’t think about survivors, don’t think about brand new canyons, don’t think about the last time you talked to him, he told himself, just dial. He might be talking to him in a few seconds, he couldn't think about the last time Alex smiled at him. He couldn't think about never seeing that again.

Dean’s breath caught tight in his throat as he waited for the cell number to connect.

 _The number you have dialled is no longer in service. Please check the…_

Dean exploded, smashing the receiver against the payphone. He slammed his way out of the booth.

Alright, don’t panic, he told himself. Stay calm, or people could start paying attention. He had to think.

He couldn’t think. Xander was dead. He was gone, and Dean was never going to see him again.

Dean shook his head, fighting tears and the twisting feeling in his chest. There had to be another way to get in touch with Alex. He took another deep, heaving breath.

Email. The computer. He couldn’t use the laptop, cause Sam could trace it, but there had to be a library or something in town. With a renewed sense of purpose, he set off down the street, trying to ignore the part of his brain that was too scared to think straight.

Finally seated in front of the monitor, he opened his other email account, the one only Alex knew about. He hadn’t touched it since that damn phone call, and was surprised to see a message in the inbox. His blood ran cold. It was from Xander, dated almost a week ago.

 _Dear Dean,_

 _I feel like I'm gonna regret writing this email. I'm not sure if you want to hear from me, I'm not sure if I want to say the things I need to say to you, after the way we left it. But there's some stuff that's about to go down here, and this could be my last chance._

 _Despite what happened, the main thing I want to say is that I always loved being with you. That first summer, and every time we’ve been together since. I guess I want you to know that it's really meant a lot to me this whole time. I guess you know that already, I know I said it last time I saw you, but I wanted to say it again._

 _I get it, too. I get that you need to spend time with your brother, and I get that I have to be out of the picture. I wish it was different, but it’s okay. And I know that fight we had was my fault. I like to think we could have got over that, if not for circumstances._

 _So anyway, everything here is going to shit. Most of it's already gone, and this is looking like the end of everything. We've got a plan, of course, but it's not a good one. This big bad is bigger than anything we've faced before and there's no guarantees for any of us. Hence the maudlin email, right? I guess I just wanted to say goodbye._

 _Good luck, Dean._

 _Alex._

Dean stared blindly at the message. He desperately wanted it not to be there, not to exist, for things to be different somehow. But it was there, in black and white, in Alex’s own words.

Goodbye.

Distantly, Dean could feel a deep, sharp ache in his chest, the beginnings of pain so strong it was going to kill him. No survivors. How was this possible?

Xander was gone.

Dean’s face was blank as he clicked out of the account, carefully saving the email. He stood and left, practically unaware of what he was doing until he found himself out on the street. Out in the harsh light of day, alone, with just that cold, aching hollowness inside him.

***

It was late by the time he staggered back into the parking lot of the motel. He didn’t know exactly what time – his watch was long gone, pawned for booze many hours and many bottles ago – but he could tell by the sky it was late. Or early?

On a sudden whim, he looked up. Almost toppled over backwards, but he took a moment to stare up at the moon and hate it with everything he had. It'd been over them all those other times, on the roof of the motel, that time in the park. They'd looked at it together, and Dean was never gonna look at it the same way ever again.

Crossing to the door of the motel room, he hugged himself, trying not to shiver. The massive amount of alcohol in his system was almost enough to keep him from walking straight, but it couldn’t stop his teeth from chattering. The cold was a good distraction, and he was almost glad he’d forgotten his coat.

No coat. No key.

He swayed in front of the door for a minute, but couldn’t quite bring himself to knock. And that was fine. He couldn’t knock, he’d stay outside. He stumbled around and leaned on the door, sliding down to sit on the concrete.

The sudden memory of the last time he’d sat like this, back to a motel room door and freezing his ass off, almost had him throwing up.

But he didn’t have any money left. So he couldn’t make any phone calls, not this time.

He was just starting to feel drunkenly satisfied with that when the door opened behind him and he fell back into the room. He looked up into his brother’s face and idly wondered if there was anything he could say that would make Sam want to kill him a little less.

“Dean, where the hell have you been?” Sam growled.

Dean laughed bitterly. Nope, nothing was gonna make this better.

That thought abruptly sobered him, but luckily he was distracted by Sam pulling him up by his arms. His drunken giggle when Sam inadvertently tickled him made his brother roll his eyes.

“Okay, now might not be the time for questions,” Sam muttered.

“Yeah, dude, I’m, like, totally wasted,” Dean replied. Alex would have gotten the joke, but Sam didn’t.

Sam hauled his ass off the floor and propelled him onto the bed. As soon as he was horizontal, Dean felt like he was melting into the mattress. It was a struggle turning his head so he could breathe. Maybe he shouldn’t, maybe he should just leave his face mashed into the pillow. Maybe then he wouldn’t wake up. Then he’d never have to think about what he was trying not to think about.

Unfortunately, Sam wasn’t finished with him. He rolled Dean onto his side, and air rushed in. Dean lay there and thought of protesting, it suddenly felt like far too much effort. He closed his eyes and drifted off.

***

Dean woke far too quickly. Nausea hit his stomach like a sick fist as his body reminded him violently exactly how much cheap tequila he’d drunk. He hauled himself to his feet and staggered unsteadily into the bathroom. He barely made it to the toilet in time.

When he’d finished purging his system of everything he’d ever eaten, Dean sat slumped on his knees with his head resting on the cool porcelain of the bathtub, one arm slung over the rim. Sam had pulled off his shoes while he slept, and the tiles were slowly freezing his feet.

His brother’s sleepy voice sounded from the bedroom, asking if he was alright. Dean barely managed to grunt something in reply.

Reality was intruding. The comfortable fog of drink was almost gone, and the residual dizziness just made him feel sick. Sicker.

It was like his brain was tiptoeing around it. He could think about how awful he felt, how cool the tiles were under him, how pissed off his brother would be. At the same time, it was like there was this undercurrent pulling at him, screaming at him that something was wrong.

But he couldn’t look directly at it or he’d be blinded. Couldn’t think about it, or he’d go crazy.

He could feel it, though, building inside him like a wave. And it was about to smack him in the head, roll over him, take him out. He’d be washed away.

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his grip on the bath tub. No, don’t think about it, he told himself. Don’t think. Get in the shower, instead. It’d seem perfectly natural; everyone with a hangover always stank like hell.

His hands trembled as he turned the taps, and shook even more when he pulled at his clothes. But finally he made it under the spray, and the shock of the water blanked his mind for a single, glorious second.

It didn’t last. He could feel it coming, and he frantically tried to force his mind back to the numbness and shock that’d descended on him yesterday. He didn’t want to feel this, didn’t want to know this. But it didn’t work, he couldn’t keep it out, and as the knowledge ripped through his mind like a fucking tornado, his legs went out from under him.

Alex was gone.

His chest clenched, and he huddled in the bottom of the tub. He couldn’t breathe. Alex was gone.

Sobs wracked his body, and tears washed away in the water running over his face.

***

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed in the bathroom. Time ran together, the water eventually ran cold, and as much as he wanted to stay there and maybe drown himself in the bathtub, he figured he should probably get out.

He felt raw, exposed, and it didn’t help that Sam’s gaze was on him as soon as he left the bathroom. He ignored it, though, and pulled on some fresh clothes and tried to look normal.

“Are we heading out of town today?” Sam eventually asked, as Dean sat on the bed to tie his boots.

“Nope,” Dean replied bluntly.

“You going somewhere?”

“Out.”

“Where?” Sam asked.

“Just out,” Dean muttered.

“To a bar?”

He cleared his throat. “Maybe.” Normally he’d be able to defend himself against the interrogation, but normally he didn’t feel like his entire body – brain, heart, nervous system – was actually the consistency of a wrung-out wet towel.

“Why?” Sam demanded, and Dean almost didn’t have the room inside him to care that Sam was angry.

“For a drink,” he said, gritting his teeth.

“A drink or a bottle?” And there it was; that pissy, I’m-pretending-to-be-calm-but-I-know-what’s-best tone Dean hated. But as tempting as it was to let rip on Sam, Dean controlled it. If he let go now, he might never stop.

“Leave it, Sam,” Dean warned, his mouth tight with the effort.

“Dean, I don’t think that this is…”

“I said leave it,” Dean growled out. “I mean it, Sam. Just back off.”

There must have been enough tension in his face or gravel in his voice to make Sam believe it, because he just gave Dean a worried look and didn’t say anything else.

Dean collected his coat and headed out. It was only a little after midday, but in a town like this, there’d be a bar somewhere.

***

That night, Dean came back with bruises. It was easier to hate someone besides himself, and the guy who spilt his drink all over Dean’s boots was just as good as anyone. He’d had friends, though, and Dean was lucky they’d been too drunk to do too much damage.

***

The next day, Dean left the room again, this time without any arguments from Sam even with Dean’s new black eye. He could have told Sam he wasn’t planning to get beat up again because he’d found a new bar, but Sam didn’t ask.

Which really should have tipped him off. Dean hadn’t got two shots in before the bar stool next to him scraped back, and Sam hopped up to join him.

“Go away, Sammy,” Dean warned. Sam just gave him a look, and turned to the bartender to order a shot.

“Leave the bottle,” Dean said. The bartender raised an eyebrow, and Dean slid him a couple of notes.

“Who are we drinking to, Dean?” Sam asked mildly, after their first shot.

The question sent a lance of pain through Dean’s chest, but he channelled the pain into glaring at his brother.

Sam seemed unsettled by what was in that glare, and he didn’t repeat the question. He refilled their glasses, instead.

For a few brief moments, Dean hoped that’d be it, that Sam would give up. But no such luck. The silence didn’t last.

“You have to tell me sometime, Dean.”

“No, I don’t,” Dean replied quickly, and covered by pouring himself another shot. Sam watched the bottle closely.

“Yeah, you do,” Sam said meaningfully. “You know why? Because sooner or later, it’s all going to come out anyway.”

And he sounded so goddamn sure. But Dean just shook his head. “It doesn’t have to.” He’d gone years without saying anything to Sam, he wasn’t about to start now.

He tossed the shot back, and he’d lost count of how many it was but alcohol was finally flooding his bloodstream, bringing with it that sought-after numbness. He stared at his empty glass, distantly aware of Sam when he started talking but thankfully able to blank most of it out.

Eventually, Sam noticed he wasn’t being listened to, and shoved Dean’s arm to get his attention. Dean blinked boozily in his direction.

“Jesus, you’re drunk again? Already?”

“Yeah, well. It takes doing, but I get there in the end,” Dean said with a bitter smile.

“Dean, please. Just talk to me,” Sam asked, almost pleading, giving Dean the earnest eyes.

Before he could think better of it, Dean replied, “Did you feel like talking after Jess died? Did I push you to talk?”

He almost missed Sam’s sharp intake of breath. “This is about…I didn’t know you had…” Sam finally lapsed into silence, and Dean idly watched him think for a few minutes. The numbness was through him now, a kind of detachment that let him pretend nothing was happening.

He wasn’t surprised when Sam’s conclusion was to pour them both another shot. They didn’t talk again, and just let the sounds of the bar wash over them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from a song by Nine Inch Nails.


	3. Wish You Were Here

The next night, Dean stared into his shot glass. He was still a few shots away from numb, and the leftover hangover from the night before wasn’t enough to preoccupy him. Sam had stayed at the motel this time, too, so there was no-one to distract him with male bonding, no-one to interrupt him with stupid fucking questions.

He couldn’t stop the memories intruding. He didn’t want to stop them, tonight. He should, he felt like he’d never make it out in one piece if he didn’t, but tonight the alcohol was just making him reckless.

The first time they’d met, it’d been late afternoon at the bar in San Francisco. Dean had been unloading crates of drinks, listening to Brad worry about his love life, when Alex showed up to help. He’d just come on shift, the first of their shifts that overlapped, and Dean remembered Brad’s dismissiveness when he introduced them, like this was just a random, ordinary meeting. Like this wasn’t the meeting that’d chance Dean’s life forever.

It seemed so strange that he hadn’t realised Alex was special. Dean had shook his hand, thought he was another normal, skinny, twitchy teenager, and that’d been it. He’d had no idea.

Then, later that same night, Dean sprung Alex slaying a vampire in a back alley. Alex had tried to pretend he’d just dusted a mugger, Dean had called him on his bullshit, and somehow their friendship was born.

It hurt to think about, but Dean realised he couldn’t remember the first time he thought about more. He couldn’t remember the first time he thought Alex was hot, or the first time he thought about kissing him, or fucking him. But the kind of heat they’d had between them didn’t come out of nowhere. How could it just suddenly appear one day, and Dean not even remember it? It was like, when they had finally fallen in lust, or whatever it had been in the beginning, coloured everything that came before it.

And the lust had eventually turned into so much more...

Dean hastily downed another shot, and then another. He couldn’t think about love. He couldn’t think about the fact that he’d never said the damn word, never told Alex how he felt. He couldn’t live with it, if he had to think about that.

He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t keep it in, couldn’t hold back, so he pushed his stool back and unsteadily got to his feet. There was a very real risk he was about to start crying like a little girl, so it was probably a good time to leave the very public bar.

The motel was only a few blocks away, but before he got even halfway there he had to duck into a nearby alley, or risk breaking down on the street.

Once out of sight, Dean crouched down behind a dumpster. Everything felt so tight, suddenly, like there were iron bands squeezing his ribs. He hated it, hated losing control like this, hated the pain welling up inside him.

Clenching his fists, he pressed his head back against the brick wall and breathed. The dumpster smelled awful, and he tried to focus on it, tried to distract himself while he pressed down on the feeling, held it in until it subsided. The brick wall was cold and unforgiving against his back, and part of him wanted to smash his own head into it again and again, just to stop himself from feeling this way.

Eventually, though, Dean felt like he could control himself long enough to make it home. He managed to leave the alley, even though he still felt wound tight enough to snap if anyone breathed on him wrong.

When he reached the room, Sam was, thankfully, asleep. Dean sat heavily on the edge of the empty bed and let his head fall into his hands.

How was he going to survive this? He couldn’t, it wasn’t possible. The thought of Alex, and that first summer, and then all those too-short weekends they’d had together, it just tore him open. He was going to bleed internally forever.

And worse, it was his fault. He’d said no, he’d made the call that ended them, and now Alex was gone. If Dean had known how little time they’d have left, if he’d known.

God, he should have known. He should have made Alex come away with him, fuck what his father or everyone else would have said. Or he should have just stayed, he should have gone to Sunnydale, he should have _been_ there.

Alex died, and Dean should have died right beside him.

Dean wrenched himself back from that idea. Stuff like that was the reason he’d been drunk for four days. The reason he’d bought a pint of whisky and stashed in his bag. For moments like this.

***

Two days later, they left town. Dean pulled himself together, barely, and managed to drive. He purposefully didn’t think, period, and instead counted miles, road markers, trees on either side of the highway, even the drum beats on most of the black album, to keep his brain harmlessly occupied.

He had to stop the car once so he could throw up, but it was mostly left-over booze. They made it halfway across the state before the counting stopped working and his hands started to shake.

He needed a drink.

Sam had kept quiet for most of the drive, kept a lid on the questions and chick-flick talk. He’d been good for the past couple of days, Dean realised. And he kept it up as Dean pulled off the highway, heading for a mid-size town even though it was only mid-afternoon. He didn’t say a word while they checked into a motel, either but as soon as Dean headed for the door, Sam stopped him.

“Don’t.”

“Why not?” Dean demanded angrily, and Sam flinched. But Dean had done nothing all day but avoid thinking, and the pressure was just about killing him.

“Because it’s not gonna help, Dean. You say this is like what happened with Jess, well, you were there. Sure, I went out and got drunk, but it didn’t help. Trust me on that,” Sam pleaded.

Dean just pushed past him, heading out of the room to the parking lot.

Sam followed. “Dean, I’m telling you, it doesn’t make it better.”

Dean rounded on him. “No? So what does make it better? You tell me how you made it go away,” he demanded.

Sam was silent.

“That’s what I thought.”

Dean turned to go. His head was pounding, and there was a suspicious tightness in his chest. It ached, spiralling up through his throat and the back of his neck.

But Sam still wasn’t done. Dean hadn’t gone a few paces before he exploded.

“Dammit, Dean. What are you gonna do, huh? Just drink the rest of your life away? God, I don’t even know who you’re drinking for. She can’t have been that special, if we never even met her.”

Dean froze for a moment. It took a supreme amount of effort not to turn around and pound on his brother. Part of him knew Sam was just pressing buttons, trying to force a reaction from him. The rest of him smarted, hard. He started walking again.

Sam followed Dean across the parking lot like a yapping puppy and tried another tactic. “And what about work? Drinking isn’t exactly going to improve your reflexes, and you’re the one who was so keen to keep up the family business. What would Dad say?”

Dean’s laugh was hollow. “Fuck him.”

Sam was startled. “What?”

“Fuck. Him. You heard me.”

The anger in it surprised even Dean. As much as he hadn’t been thinking about anything lately, apparently his brain had realised he was furious with his father.

“You’re angry with Dad? What the hell, Dean.” There was a note of honest confusion in Sam’s voice, indicating he was allowing the conversation to get sidetracked.

Dean frowned, but he wasn’t about to go there. Not with Sam, and not until he’d had something to drink.

“Just get lost, Sammy. I’m not interested in this touchy-feely crap.”

“Of course. That’s right, I forgot. You don’t do ‘feelings’ do you, Dean. You’re far too manly for that, right? Just push it down and let it eat away at you until there’s nothing left,” Sam sniped bitterly.

“With any luck, yeah,” Dean muttered. What, Sam thought he’d deny it?

Unfortunately, it wasn’t over. Once again, his brother let him go only to tail him to the bar.

“So,” Sam said casually, sliding onto the barstool next to Dean. “Why are you so angry with Dad?”

“Don’t even go there, Sammy.” Dean had forced himself to think about that particular issue, and he knew talking about it with Sam really wasn’t going to help.

“Well, where else can I go?” Sam countered. “You won’t talk to me about whatever has you drinking like a fish, and I don’t think you’re in any state to do any work.” Dean snorted, but couldn’t argue with him. “Plus, it’s really, _really_ unlike you to be angry with Dad. Even when there’s a good reason,” Sam added softly.

Dean just shook his head. He was furious with the old man, but he wasn’t going to talk about. “It’s nothing, Sam. I’m just feeling a little irrational this evening, that’s all. Logically, there’s no reason for me to be angry with Dad.” He couldn’t help the mocking tone in the last three words.

“So what’s the illogical reason?” Sam pressed, all curious. Dean just scowled at him, pressing down the response that bubbled up inside him.

“C’mon, Dean. Why can’t we talk about this?”

“For fuck’s sake, Sam. Can’t you just let it be?” Dean asked, a little desperate. “Don’t you have anything else to do?”

“No,” Sam replied, with a small smile. But Dean had already pushed himself off the bar, heading for the exit.

He was nowhere near drunk enough, but he still had half a bottle stashed in his bag. If only he could ditch the annoying bastard he’d recently called his brother.

No luck there, though. Sam followed him. Dean wasn’t exactly surprised.

“Dean…”

“Just. Fuck. Off,” Dean yelled. He couldn’t help it; Sam’s constant prodding, and he saw red.

“You said it yourself, Dean. What the hell else am I supposed to do?” Sam called after his retreating back.

There was enough honesty in Sam’s voice to crack through Dean’s haze, just a little bit. Sam was really worried about him. But it wasn’t enough to make Dean slow down.

Back at the motel room, he had the bottle out of his bag and opened before he even registered what he was doing. All the drinking he’d been doing lately, and it still burned going down.

At least, it did until it was snatched out of his hands.

“What the fuck? Sam!” he roared.

Sam evaded his lunge, shoving Dean off-balance far too easily. He fell on his ass between the beds, glaring up at Sam.

“Sam…” he began, intending to give his brother exactly three seconds to give the damn bottle back.

But the bastard was resolute. “No way, Dean. I won’t let you do this to yourself.”

Dean chuckled darkly. “Like you can stop me.”

Sam’s mouth twisted, but he kept hold of his determination. “Watch me.”

Their gaze held for a long moment, but Dean was up on his feet and through the door before his brain caught up.

Sam tackled him in the parking lot.

“Get off me,” Dean growled, feeling the gravel crunch under him as he tried to wrestle Sam off.

But Sam’s arms were locked around Dean’s upper body, and the little bastard had a good grip on him. Dean could have shifted him, but not without damaging Sam more than he was willing to. So he stopped struggling, clenching his teeth in anticipation of another barrage of questions.

“You’re drinking, Dean. You never drink. Not like this.” Sam’s voice was hoarse with effort, a testament to how freaked out he was. “You’re angry with Dad, who is god knows where, and you almost died last week.”

Dean had almost forgotten about the reaper – it felt like years ago.

“Now you’ve lost someone, and I don’t even know who. But I’m not going to sit by and watch you drink yourself into a coma. I can’t.”

Dean was about to reply, when Sam whispered, “Don’t make me lose you before I have to.”

 _Oh, god. This wasn’t fair_. Dean could feel the ache building up inside him again. And damn Sammy for pulling this on him now, when everything else was so damn hard. He pushed at his brother’s slackening hold, but didn’t try to get up out of the dirt. He could feel Sam watching him, but Dean was too busy trying to quell the wrenching sobs welling up through his chest. His fists struck the gravel, and he welcomed the pain.

“Dean, don’t try to…you can…”

Sammy trying to tell him it was okay to cry just made it worse. He clenched his teeth, ran his hands roughly through his hair, and shoved Sam’s hands away when they reached for him.

After what felt like an age, Dean pulled himself to his feet and headed back to the bar.

***

The morning after, and Dean woke up feeling wiped out. His head was pounding, and it was more than the usual drank-himself-into-unconsciousness. Maybe because he hadn’t.

After he left Sam on his ass in the dirt of the parking lot, he went back to the bar. But the whiskey tasted like bile going down, and every shot felt like he was betraying his brother in the worst possible way.

He could have pounded his head on the bar in frustration. Don’t drink, and get overwhelmed with guilt. Drink, and the same applies. God, his brother was a pain in the ass.

All the thinking and not-thinking was making his head hurt again.

Sammy came out of the bathroom, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. He raised his head to really look at his brother in what felt like the first time in months. He wasn’t aware Dean was looking, probably didn’t expect him to be awake for a few hours. And he looked sad. Depressed, and worried.

“Hey,” Dean said.

“Hey,” Sam replied, clearly surprised Dean was showing any sign of life. And just like that, all the worry and sadness got shuttered away behind a calm, neutral mask.

After a silence that Dean couldn’t quite bring himself to fill, Sammy continued. “Wanna get some breakfast?”

***

They hit a typical roadside diner, and even though it’d been a while since his last mean Dean couldn’t muster his usual hunger. He tried, for Sam’s sake, but it turned to ashes in his mouth. He grimaced, and pushed the plate away. He really couldn’t eat. Not yet.

“Eat something, Dean,” Sam said quietly.

Dean looked at him. The past few days had been fucked up in more ways than he could count, and he knew Sam had been bearing the brunt of it.

Guiltily, he lifted his fork and poked experimentally at the meal, but, with a sigh, he put it down again. “Nah, I’m not hungry right now.”

“You ever gonna be hungry again?” Sam asked lightly.

Dean shrugged. “Just…not right now.”

“It isn’t that I don’t get it, Dean, I do,” Sam said earnestly. “I get that something’s happened to someone you love, and you’re never gonna see them again. I understand what that feels like. And I’m only pestering you because I don’t want to lose you. Same reasons you forced me to eat after Jess died.”

Dean clenched his jaw, trying not to flinch at his brother’s bluntness. Abruptly he needed a drink.

“Look, Sam…” But he stalled. After Jess died. Back when Dean spent all his time making Sam eat, trying to get him to sleep, wanting to help with the nightmares. Back when Dean was still pretending he hadn’t just cut out his own heart, kidding himself it was safer that way.

He looked across the table, and Sammy met his eyes with so much fucking sympathy, when really, he had no idea.

The bitterness inside Dean twisted sharply, and he couldn’t stop himself from thinking about how many years Sam had with Jess, and how, aside from the whole hunting-as-a-family-legacy thing, he’d never had a reason to be afraid to introduce her to the family.

Sam had years with Jess, before she died. If only Dean had been brave enough to take that, when it was offered.

Self-loathing filled him, and Dean realised it was time to leave. “Look, this was a bad idea. I gotta get out of here. I’ll be back at the room later.” He got up, ignoring the hurt look in his brother’s eyes.

But Sam was apparently fed up, too, and there was no shortage of sourness in his voice as he said, “Going to go get drunk, then? At ten in the morning? Gee, Dean, that’s not pathetic.”

Dean flinched, and paused by the table, but Sam wasn’t done. “Whoever it is you’ve lost, Dean – would they want you like this?”

The world seemed to freeze for a second. Dean stared at Sam in shock.

His brother glanced up, saw the look on Dean’s face. “Oh, God, Dean, I’m sorry. I don’t—“

But Dean was gone, crashing past a waitress and slamming the door on his way out. He ran, mind rebelling and pain stabbing through him again.

Sam caught up with him in the car park of the motel. Dean’d headed straight for the car, but Sam wrenched him away from the driver’s seat.

Dean hauled off and punched him. Everything that had been held inside him for days was raging through him, and he could barely see straight. “Fuck. You. You and Dad. You and your fucking _girlfriend_ ,” Dean snarled, lashing out at Sam again.

“What the fuck does she have to do with this?” Sam demanded from behind his forearms, raised to block Dean’s fists.

“None of this would have happened if she hadn’t gone and died,” Dean spat.

Anger and grief chased each other across Sam’s face, and he shoved Dean hard against the car. “Don’t you dare talk about her like that!”

The impact across Dean’s back knocked the wind out of him, brought the ache back. “Well, she shouldn’t have…If she hadn’t…God, if her and Mom hadn’t…I wouldn’t have…”

Dean couldn’t hold it in. The anger was gone, and that horrible tightness was back in his throat. He doubled over, to try to hide it, but Sam went down with him to keep him from hitting the ground.

He held on tight, as rough sobs shook Dean’s entire body.

***

‘If only’ was beating through his head. It thundered, throbbed, made him ache. So many things he should have done different. For him, for Alex, for Dad. It should have been different. He should have been different. God, if only he’d been different.

He couldn’t stop. He’d been afraid of this – once it started, once he really started to feel it, he’d never be able to stop. Guilt, anger, pain. Grief. He couldn’t stop it – it was sadness like a fucking flood, and it overwhelmed him, left him sobbing his heart out in a fucking parking lot.

***

At last, Dean sat back on the bitumen, head between his knees. He wiped at his eyes with shaking hands. Sam had moved to sit next to him, and Dean would never admit it but he appreciated the tacit support.

Finally, he laughed, bitter and hoarse. “Fuck,” he choked out. His mind was somehow blank and full of _everything_ , all at once.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” Sam asked cautiously.

Dean shook his head. “I really don’t think I can talk about it yet.” He felt calmer, though, at least.

“Well, can you tell me anything? Like why the fuck you’re so angry at me?” Sam tried, after a moment.

The hurt in his voice meant Dean had to respond. “I’m not, really. Or at Jess. It’s just…” he trailed off, staring at his hands. His throat worked, and Christ, he didn’t want to start crying again. He settled for talking, instead.

“I have to blame someone other than me. I can’t stand to…” He swallowed heavily. “It’s all my fault,” he whispered.

“Dean, can’t you tell me anything?” More pleading in Sam’s voice, and he couldn’t ignore it.

He sighed, and wondered what he could possibly say. “About Dad…” he began slowly. “It wasn’t really him either, I guess, although other parts of it were.”

He could practically hear the cogs whirring as Sam tried to puzzle that one out.

Finally, Dean ground out, “Dad loved Mom, and she was killed. You loved Jess and she was killed. I loved…I loved…” He clenched his eyes closed, and Sam clasped his arm in consolation. Dean gave a ragged laugh.

“When Jess died, I made a phone call. One fucking call that ended everything. I couldn’t risk that thing finding out, and I thought that if I stayed away, pretended like it was nothing…” Dean couldn’t finish, but he felt Sam’s grip on his arm tighten, just a little.

“Then that fucking town went under. It was all a waste – I should’ve stayed. I should’ve gone back and stayed. I should’ve made the most of the time we had left. I thought I could go back and make things right, that we’d have time once you and me and Dad hunted this thing down, but we never got a chance to…”

Dean’s throat felt like it was on fire. It was all tight – he couldn’t breathe. God, this was going to kill him. It hurt too much, everything hurt too much. It felt like he was dying.

Sammy moved in front of him, drawing his attention.

“Dean, I’m so sorry,” he said hoarsely.

Dean grimaced, recoiling. He didn’t want sorry, didn’t want sympathy. He just wanted things to be different, to be better. He wanted everything to go away.

He must have looked restless, cause Sammy spoke up. “Wanna drink?”

Dean looked at him in surprise. Sam shrugged. “After that, I want one too.”

A small amount of relief washed through him. He should have known Sammy would get it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from a song by Pink Floyd.


	4. Bad Moon Rising

The days passed, and things were a little better. Dean was taking it hour by hour, going through the motions. Pretend to eat, pretend to sleep, pretend to look for something to hunt. Try to find a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

Ever since his fairly embarrassing breakdown, Sam had eased off on the questions. But his eyes followed Dean with that sympathetic, understanding expression that Dean was quickly getting to hate.

He was trying not to drink. Or, drink less, anyway. He was also pointedly not thinking about a lot of things, but it was getting a little easier. Talking even just a little had actually lifted some of the weight, like a pressure valve had been let off. But he wasn’t going to tell Sam that.

They were getting gas when Cassie’s call came through. The first time he saw her again, he was surprised. Here was a girl who’d once tied him up in knots, one that had actually lasted more than a night. He’d regretted leaving her, told her some of his secrets. She was still fearless, still sharp, still beautifully alive. And he could tell she still had a thing for him.

But somehow, he just couldn’t bring himself to care that much. All the sparks were gone, and she left him totally cold. She’d never understood him the way Alex did.

So he sat there, burying himself in the job, ignoring the looks she was sending his way. They finished up, and headed out of town. A few days later, Sam had his first vision.

With everything that happened with the Millers, Dean found he had something to keep him going, something to focus on. Without Dean, Sam could turn into Max. And neither of them wanted to see that happen.

The idea that his brother needed him to keep him sane, that Dean needed to stay functional just to help Sam, made it all just a little easier. So, he reigned himself in, like he’d been doing all his life, and got on with the job. Protect Sam. They were brothers, after all.

Little jerk got himself kidnapped two days later, by human serial killers, no less. But that was a good day, so Dean let it slide.

There were still bad days, of course, when he was restless and he had to get drunk just to keep his head quiet. Had to get in a fight to remind himself he was still alive, had to get hurt to replace one pain with another. Had to hurt someone, just to make sure he wasn’t the only one.

Sam took it all in stride, putting up with Dean’s temper and silences. Forced him to eat, and drove when Dean couldn’t. Proved that Dean needed Sam just as much. They looked for jobs, looked for their father, ran a few credit card scams to keep themselves afloat.

And Dean tried. He bantered, flirted, had normal conversations with people. He only drank when he was desperate, and took only a little more satisfaction in killing something that he would have otherwise. He was pretty sure he fooled even Sam, half the time.

***

Chicago started like any other job. Mysterious deaths, reports of animal-like ferocity on the part of the killers. Then Sam’s little friend showed up, and it all went to hell.

Meg. What a bitch. Sam just gets done ragging on him for flirting with girls he’s never gonna go out with – how else are they supposed to get information? – when she starts laying into him about dragging Sam all over the country. Jesus.

At least Sam defended him. Especially since Sam’s new girlfriend turned out to be laying a trap for their father. And that, by the way, was stupidity if Dean ever saw it. Please – as if the old man couldn’t smell that one a mile off.

Later, he wondered about the pride he still felt for John. How could you be so angry at someone you admired so much? Actually seeing him in the flesh, Dean had been torn between relief and resentment. His reactions had been so mixed, so fucking confused, that he’d gone for no reaction at all. And when his Dad asked what was wrong, he’d been ‘getting over the flu.’

And Sammy backed him up.

He’d been glad to see Sam and Dad make peace. They were still family. And while it hurt to leave the old man behind, dealing with him every day might have been more than Dean could take.

As it was, there was yet another thing Dean was not-thinking about. Sam was going to leave. The second they hunted the bastard thing down, Sam was going to head straight back to his ‘normal’ life. Back to law school, back to the nine-to-five lifestyle he’d been gearing up for. He’d seemed surprised that Dean wasn’t planning on doing the same.

He had been, once. Back in October, Alex had asked him. They’d fought about it – Dean’s knee-jerk reaction hadn’t been pretty. But as he’d driven away, his imagination had laid out what it could be like. And he’d wanted it. He’d wanted it more than anything.

Of course, when he’d reached the rendezvous John had set up, the old man hadn’t shown. After a week of waiting, Dean had broken into Sam’s apartment in Palo Alto. Jess died, and Dean made a phone call.

And now he had nothing to go back to.

***

He was hungover the morning they read about Elkins. He still managed to rag Sammy about that girl – he had a feeling that the pranks and constant teasing reassured his brother more than any chick flick talk might. Sometimes it wasn’t hard to make the effort, either.

Then their father made a surprise appearance. Dean made every effort to act normal, like he always had. Some of his anger had faded – at least, it did on his more rational days – and following orders made it easier not to think.

But it had to be vampires. Just the name brought up all kinds of memories. Slaying with Alex in San Francisco. Countless stories about Buffy, and the odd mention of ‘Deadboy’ or Spike. These freaks were different, at least – a weaker breed. Different enough that he could pretend they were something else. So he pressed everything down until he could barely feel it, and concentrated on getting through it. He barely said a word the entire job, just did what he had to.

Although, he had to admit, disobeying the old man gave him a bit of a kick.

***

Maps and clippings were spread over every flat surface of the motel room, as John explained his research. The Colt lay innocuously on top of a pile of printed articles.

Dean listened as Sam asked questions, argued with John about whether all of it was his fault or not, and finally asked where the thing was going next. Salvation, Iowa. Sounded peachy.

“Dean, are you even listening?”

“Yes sir,” he answered on reflex. “Salvation, Iowa.” It was like being caught out by a teacher.

“What the hell’s wrong with you? You’ve barely said a word in three days. And you look like shit,” he added as an afterthought.

“Still got the flu, Dad,” he answered mechanically.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” John spat. Then he sighed. “Well, have you been to a doctor?”

Dean kept his head low. Sam’s eyes were boring into him with that worried puppy look, and the concerned parent act was a bit much. “Yeah. He just said to take it easy.”

Funny how it rolled off his tongue so easy. After all this time, lying to the man was like breathing.

***

Salvation. They were asking for irony when they named that one. Dean managed to sneak some whiskey into his bag before they left Colorado, and when he took a few swigs, Sam grimaced but didn’t say anything. Even took one himself when Dean offered the bottle. The chance that some other family would face the same demon, the same loss, raised more than a few ghosts for his brother, and Dean once again realised he’d have to look out for Sammy.

But he should have known someone’d be after that stupid gun.

As he watched his father drive off with the fake, the real one felt heavy in his hand. His father was willing to sacrifice his life for this weapon, for the chance it represented. Four bullets. Four little opportunities to end all of this.

What if it wasn’t enough?

But there was no time to think on it – there was only frustration, adrenalin, smoke, and the smell of other people’s fear. They saved the family, but Sam’s goodbye speech was ringing in his ears. The kid had turned out more like Dad than anyone thought – more than willing to sacrifice himself to kill this thing. Bastards, both of them. Didn’t they know they were the only thing Dean had left?

***

The thought that the bitch from hell might have killed his father sent spikes of fear up Dean’s spine. He’d been right when he told Sam he was barely holding it together – he’d been torn between what he wanted from Alex and his duty to his father for far too long, and the thought that he might end up with nothing anyway just about killed him. Losing his father and Alex was a nightmare he’d never even considered.

So, with tension ratcheted through his body, he interrogated the psycho-formerly-known-as-Meg. He had to admit, Pure Evil came in some damn small packages. But when Bobby told him there was a real girl trapped inside her, Dean was horrified. He had no idea these fuckers took real, live people and took away their choices. He knew he couldn’t leave her in there, even if it killed her. What the hell kind of life could that be, anyway, trapped inside your own body, in a cage in your own mind?

He was relieved, though, when she thanked him. He knew he sentenced her to death when he forced Sam to finish the ritual, even if it was weighed against freeing her and ridding the world of the demon that imprisoned her. He’d made a conscious decision to kill someone, without the rationale of reflex or self-defence. He wasn’t about to forget how easy it was, either.

***

It was even easier in the alley in Jefferson City. He shot the man-thing on top of Sammy without a single hesitation. The fight in the room, the chase – he was too wired for any thought other than protecting Sam and Dad.

Dean didn’t breathe easy until they were behind the warded windows of the cabin. These things were tough, and far too good at finding them. Of course, as soon as he relaxed enough to pay attention, he realised the bastards wouldn’t even need to look.

Because one of them was already in the fucking room.

Dean raised the gun. “You’re not my Dad.”

“Dean, it’s me.” The sincerity in his father’s voice sounded so real, but Dean knew. He just knew.

“I know my Dad better than anyone. And you ain’t him.”

“What the hell has gotten into you?” The frustration sounded so real.

Sam came in, and Dean peripherally saw him do a double-take.

“Dean? What the hell is going on?”

The thing wearing John’s body tried to fool Sam, and for a moment, Dean honestly wasn’t sure it wouldn’t succeed. He could have cried from relief when Sam stood by him.

Then it told Dean to kill him.

And he couldn’t do it. Everything in him was screaming, he knew his father was trapped somewhere in there, but he couldn’t pull the trigger. Not this time.

It knew it had won. Dean looked into those glowing orange eyes, that face twisted in an expression of triumph, and tasted ashes.

Pinned to the wall, he’d never felt so completely helpless. Frantically trying to think of something, trying to fight, but the fucker had completely blindsided him.

He listened as Sammy raged against it, and it taunted him. “Make the gun float to you there, psychic boy.”

It turned to Dean, mocking him with his father’s anger. And it was right – John would be furious that they’d been tricked, even if Dean had figured it out eventually, and even angrier that he’d been too weak to pull the trigger.

Then, it revealed something he’d never expected. “As far as I’m concerned, this is justice. You know that little exorcism of yours? That was my daughter.”

“Who, Meg?” That bitch?

“The one in the alley?” it went on. “That was my boy. You understand?”

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” Dean replied.

Unfortunately, the thing showed real signs of anger. “What? You think you’re the only one who gets to have a family? You destroyed my children. How would you feel if I destroyed your family?”

Dean stared at it. That was the price, then. For killing – he’d made himself a target. And it was going to go after the people he loved.

It smiled at him. “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. I did. Still, two wrongs don’t make a right.”

Dean had honestly forgotten that this was the thing responsible for his mother’s death. Seeing it wear his father’s face, his mind had distanced it from the shadowy figure his Dad told him about so long ago. And now it was here. Fury fired through him again.

“You son of a bitch.”

Sam spoke up, from across the room. “I wanna know why. Why’d you do it?”

Jesus, Sam always had to know why. Seeing the thing’s attention turn on his brother made Dean itch. He had to keep it away from Sammy any way he could. He ignored the talk of plans, and other children. But there was only one way he could think to draw it back to him. Make it mad.

“Listen, you mind getting this over with, huh?” he said, feigning boredom. He smirked at it. “Cause I really can’t stand the monologuing.”

Obnoxious had always worked for him in the past.

It narrowed its eyes at him, and stalked away from Sam. Dean had a few seconds to feel a secret triumph, but it didn’t last.

“Funny. But that’s all part of your MO, isn’t it? Mask all that nasty pain. Mask the truth.”

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?” He tried to bluff it out, but the talk of truth had all his mental alarm bells ringing.

“You know, you fight and you fight for this family, but the truth is…they don’t need you. Not like you need them.” It looked at him like it could see right through to his soul, and Dean had never felt so naked in his entire life. Then, it went on. “And then you had to give up the one person outside this room who meant anything to you.”

Fear flared inside him. “Shut up,” he ground out. “You shut up about that.”

But it mocked him. “Your precious Alex. Your one true love. But I know your secret; I know what you’ve been hiding all this time. And guess what?” It leaned in to whisper in his ear.

“John knows it too.”

Dean felt like all his insides had been bathed in ice. It couldn’t be true.

“What?” he finally managed.

“I can read your mind like a book, kiddo, and John, here, inside me like he is? He can see it all, too.”

His father knew. Dean’s head swam, and for a second he thought he’d pass out. “No, I don’t…Dad, I didn’t…”

“And he hates you for it,” it hissed.

No physical blow could have hurt so much. Dean closed his eyes, pressing down on the pain. Hell, he’d had practice. Anger. Anger was better.

He opened his eyes, and matched the demon glare for glare.

“I bet you’re real proud of your kids, too, huh? Oh wait, I forgot. I wasted ‘em.”

He smiled weakly at the demon. It didn’t reply, but stepped back. It looked at him, and something in its eyes changed.

Agony suddenly blossomed across Dean’s chest, and he could feel wetness. Blood, pouring out of him. God, it hurt. He could hear Sam screaming for him, couldn’t stop himself from screaming too. The fucking thing kept talking, killing his heart like it was killing his body.

“Young love torn apart: it’s a sad thing, Dean, it really is. You know what the saddest part is?”

The invisible knives twisting their way through his body stopped, and Dean looked up at the demon through a haze of pain.

“Alex is still alive.”

For a second, all Dean could do was blink at it. Alex…alive? The tiny bubble of elation that formed was quickly crushed, replaced by horror at the demon’s next words.

“And I’m gonna find him.”

“You failed, boy," it went on. All that sacrifice to keep him safe, all for nothing. Me and Alex are gonna have a lot of fun together once I’m done here.”

“No. No!” God, he had to get out, had to warn him. He screamed as pain lanced through him again. He resorted to pleading with the one person who might be able to help him.

“Dad! Dad, don’t you let it kill me. I know you hate me right now, but please! I’m still your son…”

The pain got worse, and he couldn’t speak, couldn’t scream, just gritted his teeth. Blood, more, bubbling up through his mouth. Sam, yelling and struggling. It was getting harder and harder to hold on…

“Dad, I’m sorry…” Dean managed to whisper, then let go, welcomed the blackness that descended.

***

He came round slowly. The pain in his chest sharpened with every breath, and he struggled to remember what had happened. Sam’s hands were fluttering over him, trying to get to the damage.

“Where’s Dad?” he asked weakly.

“He’s right here. He’s right here, Dean,” Sam assured him.

They needed to be safe, Dean thought muzzily. “Go check on him.”

The sound of John’s panicked voice was almost a relief, but his pleas with Sam to kill him were almost more than Dean could take. Could Sam really do it? Shoot their father?

The answer was no, and the demon escaped. Dean could practically feel the failure pouring off his father. His expression was mirrored on Sam’s face, but Dean had never been more proud of his brother.

In what could only be described as a moment of stress-induced hysteria, Dean practically laughed out loud. He was proud of his brother for not shooting his father when he begged for it. His family was so fucked up.

Sam helped them both out to the Impala. Dean was too weak to walk by himself, almost too weak to think. It felt like there was something wrong, something he couldn’t remember. Why was his father avoiding his eyes?

Then it hit him. He knew. Dean’s mind started racing, and a creeping fear settled in his belly. This was it. His father knew.

But then the rest came back to him, too. Alex was alive.

He lay across the back seat as Sam drove them to hospital, trying to find a way to even attempt to deal with that. His exhausted brain couldn’t even begin to process it. Alex was alive. The thought just kept running around in circles, chasing its tail in Dean’s addled head.

Sam and his father picked that moment to start fighting yet again.

“I’m surprised at you, Sammy. Why didn’t you kill it? I thought we saw eye to eye on this—killin’ this demon comes first. Before me, before everything,” John insisted.

Sam glanced at Dean in the rearview, and Dean could have cheered at his answer.

“No, sir. Not before everything.” Sam continued, attempting to pacify his father with strategy. “Look, we still have the Colt. We still have the one bullet left.”

Dean got that creeping feeling in his stomach again. He was starting to hate it.

“And now we know who it’s going after,” he managed to say. It hurt to talk, and he wondered briefly what the thing had done to his insides.

There was an awkward silence in the car. Dean belatedly realised he could have not brought it up, taken refuge in a ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ policy. But he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to go back to that. And if Alex was alive, he was going to need their help.

Sam agreed, and he sounded determined. Dean was stunned – Sam didn’t care?

They waited for John’s verdict. When it came, it was hesitant, and he had a split second to wonder if this car ride was the last he’d see of his father.

“Look, I don’t…”

Split-second. His father’s gruff voice, and Dean saw a big shape out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t even have time to turn his head before the world imploded. There was a nightmare-sound of shattering glass and twisting metal, and the shocking jolt of impact.

The rest was darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from a song by Creedence Clearwater Revival.


	5. The Ghost Of You

Dean woke up in hospital. He felt like crap – it took a few minutes for the memories of the night before, the day before, hell, the whole week before, to come back to him. Head killing him, he hauled his ass out of bed and started to look for Sam.

His mind was going in circles again, with bits and pieces floating to the surface one after the other. Alex. Alex could be alive. Dean tried to ignore the fluttery feelings in his belly at that thought. Couldn’t get his hopes up – the thing could be lying.

But why would it? It hurt Dean more to know that Alex was dead – that was plenty to taunt him with. Why make him hope? Alex could really be alive.

His Dad. He knew. The demon told him, made him see. Made him see inside Dean’s head. Holy fuck.

Swallowing heavily, he continued down the corridor, trying to ignore the ball of tension gnawing at the pit of his stomach. He couldn’t think about that yet – if his father hated him, he’d deal with it when it was staring him in the face.

Dean looked around him. The halls were deserted. No-one came to his calls – weird in a hospital. Weren’t there supposed to be nurses or something? Orderlies? He hit the stairs, and found a nurses station on the level below.

“Excuse me. Hi. I, uh, I think I was in a car accident, my dad and my brother, I just need to find them.”

The nurse didn’t respond. What the hell?

“Hello?” He snapped his fingers – a move obnoxious enough to annoy anyone into glaring at him – but she didn’t even bat an eyelid.

That feeling in the pit of his stomach was quickly replaced with panic, and he fled back up the stairs.

Back to his room, and he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He was lying there. His body was lying there. He was outside his body.

Holy fuck.

He was going to die.

***

Dean’s mind was still going in loops when Sam came in. His brother looked horrible, but he was vertical, and Dean could only assume he was mostly unharmed.

“Sammy! You look good, considering.”

Sam didn’t respond – just kept looking at the body in the bed like he was going to cry.

“Oh, no,” Sammy whispered.

“Man, tell me you can hear me. How's Dad? Come on, you're the psychic. Give me some ghost whispering or something!”

Dean’s desperate pleas fell on deaf ears, as Sam ignored him in favour of staring at the body on the bed. Dean couldn’t quite bring himself to think of it as his own.

He was almost relieved to see the doctor – surely they’d pull off some miracle of modern medicine and save his ass.

“Your father's awake. You can go see him if you like.”

Dean’s relief had only the tiniest bit of fear.

“Doc, what about my brother?”

Yeah, Sam, get the verdict, Dean thought. Find out how long I’m gonna be like this.

The doctor was grave, far too serious for good news. “Well, he sustained serious injury: blood loss, contusions to his liver and kidney. But it's the head trauma I'm worried about. There's early signs of cerebral edema.”

Cerebral a-what-now? Dean thought. Sam ignored the technical stuff and got straight to the point, though.

“Well, what can we do?”

“We won't know his full condition until he wakes up. If he wakes up.”

“If?”

Dean tried to be shocked, but hell, he was already walking around without a body.

Then the doctor got all compassionate. “I have to be honest…”

Dean might not have a body, but that didn’t mean he was giving up. “Oh, screw you, Doc, I'm waking up. Alex needs my help, and Sam can’t handle…”

The doctor went on, oblivious. “Most people with this degree of injury wouldn't have survived this long. He's fighting very hard. But you need to have realistic expectations.”

Dean stared at the doctor for a second, shocked. Realistic expectations? They weren’t even going to try and get him alive again? Jesus, what kind of hospital was this?

Time to cut their losses, then. “Come on, Sam. Go find some hoodoo priest to lay some mojo on me. Sam?”

Sam couldn’t hear him. Fuck.

***

Dean followed his brother, and listened to their father stone-walling Sammy. With all the people the man knew, there wasn’t one who could come and lay a healing spell on Dean? Bull. Shit.

So that was how it was. John really hated him. It was over.

Dean refused to think about the emptiness that rose up inside him.

Then Sam asked about the demon.

“He said he had plans for me, and children like me. Do you have any idea what he meant by that?”

“No, I don't.”

Lying. He was lying, and Dean could tell.

Sam seemed to accept it, though. Then he asked a question Dean hadn’t thought he’d have the guts to even think about.

“Dad…What about Alex? Are we going to-”

“We’ll deal with that if it comes up.”

The shuttered look on his father’s face drove another shaft of pain through Dean. He barely heard the old man tell Sammy that he was working on a plan or something. Sam left, and Dean could only stare at John. He’d never felt so betrayed in his entire life.

***

John was sitting by the body, his body. Had been for almost an hour. Just…sitting. Dean stood there, waiting for something to happen, but his patience gave out.

“Come on, Dad. You’ve gotta help me. I’ve gotta get better, I’ve gotta get in there.”

He wasn’t sure why he started talking. The old man couldn’t even hear him, but he just couldn’t help himself.

“You haven't called a soul for help. You haven't even tried. What about Alex? You’re just going to let that demon hurt him? Aren't you going to do anything? Aren't you even going to say anything?”

He kept hoping something would get through. Kept hoping the man would do something that meant he was still Dad.

“I've done everything you've ever asked me. Everything. I have given everything I've ever had. And you're just going to sit there and you're going to watch me die? I mean, what the hell kind of father are you?”

Bitterness crashed through him like a wave, and, once again, he was struck by the realization that it was over.

“God, if that demon hadn’t’ve let you see…” he whispered, fighting off tears. “You really hate me that much.”

But Alex was alive. Dean could have one thing he wanted, maybe. And even if Alex wanted nothing to do with him, he had to warn him what was coming. Maybe somehow he’d get to apologise. Apologise, and hope like hell that fucking thing didn’t get anywhere near him.

One last look at the man on the bed. And a parting shot, just in case some part of him could hear.

“Alex needs my help, Dad. So I’m gonna do what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

He left.

***

Out the front of the hospital, Dean took stock. Alex was…somewhere. And Dean had to get there yesterday.

He closed his eyes. “I’ve read about astral projection, I know how this shit is supposed to work,” he muttered to himself.

He absently reached up for his necklace, and swallowed hard when it wasn't there. But he could remember the shape of it in his fist, remember the day Alex gave it to him. That day in the car, in the rain. Suddenly, Dean was washed in the smell of him, and the feel of his skin.

“Alex, where are you?”

He felt himself disappear.

***

Reappearing was a little less pleasant. Disoriented, he tried to grope for the wall and barely stopped himself from falling through it.

His eyes focused, and his stomach leapt into his throat at the sight before him.

Alex. Alive.

For several minutes, all he could do was stare at Alex’s face. Alive.

Alive, and held in place against a wall. And that was all kinds of horribly familiar.

Dean finally tore his eyes away, looked over to the other side of the room, and sure enough, some guy with burning eyes was pacing the floor.

Holy shit, it already found him. Dean was just in time to watch it kill him, and there was fuck all he could do. His gaze flicked back to Alex, who looked incredibly pissed off.

The demon started to talk, and all Dean could do was listen.

“You have your boyfriend to thank for all of this, you know. It’s funny, he got so upset when he heard you were dead. Cried and everything. Went out and got drunk, yelled at his loved ones, blah, blah, blah. He kept beating himself up over the fact that he only dumped you to keep you safe from me.”

“Dead? Since when was I dead?” Alex demanded, honest confusion in his voice.

“You do remember how your town went under? He thought you’d gone with it. After all, you didn’t write, didn’t call…he blamed himself, you know.”

“Shut up. What the hell do you want?” Still furious, Alex snapped at the bastard without a single bit of fear, and went back to struggling to get off the wall. Dean couldn’t help the surge of pride. Stubborn bastard, he thought fondly.

The thing continued, mocking. “All that pain, all that self-doubt. You’re almost as much fun as the Winchesters. You don’t believe he really loves you. But if he didn’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

Oh, God. That fucker. Dean tried to stop himself from panicking. It was only his worst nightmare come to life, but now was not the time to fall apart. There had to be something he could do to help.

Meanwhile, Xander was grinding his teeth. “What do you want?” he asked again, barely unclenching his jaw.

“To hurt you; isn’t it obvious? I hurt you, I hurt him.” The demon had that mock-casual thing going, but Alex looked away in denial. “It’s still fun, even if he’s dying,” the bastard continued.

Alex’s head snapped back up. “What?” he demanded.

Dean held his breath.

The thing practically purred. “Oh, yes. Warming a bed in Chandler County Hospital. Not warm for that much longer though, he’ll be gone before you can get to him. And of course, I’m gonna stop you from trying.”

Alex struggled helplessly again, and the demon chuckled. “Oh, this is beautiful. He dumped you, and you’d still run halfway across the country to save him?”

“Fuck you,” Alex whispered.

The thing leaned in closer. “You’re pathetic,” it replied, matching Alex’s whisper. “And soon you’ll be dead.”

Alex just glared at it, and Dean could’ve cheered. He should’ve known he wouldn’t back down.

Finally done with talking, the thing took a few paces back, and Dean’s heart sank when he realized what was coming. It gestured with one hand, and apparently Dean’s semi-ghost eyes could see special stuff, cause he could actually see the invisible blow as it struck out at Alex.

He was already moving. Without thinking, he’d thrown himself between Alex and the demon. He grunted a bit as the hit slammed him backwards.

He slammed right into Alex, and the demon’s power held them there, buffeted by blow after blow. It felt like bludgeons.

It finally stopped, and Dean collapsed to the floor. He wasn’t bleeding or bruised, but he’d never felt so weak.

He barely had time to see the demon’s furious face before he blacked out.

***

Sam stalked into his father’s room. He stared out the window, wondering if he could bring himself to say something.

“You’re quiet.”

His father’s innocent comment sent him over the edge. He hurled the bag onto the bed with a crash.

“Did you think I wouldn't find out?” he demanded.

His father had the gall to ask what he was talking about.

“That stuff from Bobby, you don't use it to ward off a demon, you use it to summon one. You're planning on bringing the demon here, aren't you? Having some stupid macho showdown?!”

“I have a plan, Sam,” was his father’s only justification.

“That's exactly my point! Dean is dying, and you have a plan! You care more about killing this demon than you do saving your own son!”

“Do not tell me how I feel! I am doing this for Dean.”

“How?” Sam demanded. “How is revenge going to help him? You're not thinking about anybody but yourself, it's the same selfish obsession!”

“You know, it's funny, I thought it was your obsession too! This demon killed your mother, killed your girlfriend. You begged me to be part of this hunt. Now if you'd killed that damn thing when you had the chance, none of this would have happened.”

“It was possessing you, Dad, I would have killed you too.”

“Yeah, and your brother would be awake right now.”

Sam stopped cold. “Go to hell.”

“I should have never taken you along in the first place. I knew it was a mistake, I knew I was wrong to think you could handle it.”

But it was all too much. Today, of all days, and they’re having the same old argument.

“Why the hell are you even thinking about the demon right now? Dean is dying!” he shouted. If sheer volume couldn’t get that into John’s head, nothing would.

John glared at him, but Sam kept shouting, unable to see past his own anger.

“His body is lying there in that room, but he’s gone! I can’t believe you’re not trying to get him back.

“What the hell are you saying?”

“I can feel it, Dad. He was there, before, but now…” His anger suddenly died, and he choked up. “He’s getting further and further away.”

John stared at him. “You…you can feel that?” he asked hesitantly.

Sam nodded.

“No, Sam, that’s…don’t say that.” His father could deny it all he wanted, but Sam knew it was the truth. At least John now looked as miserable as Sam felt.

Gathering his courage, he decided now was as good a time as any. “Dad, what about Alex?”

“Jesus, Sammy, what about Alex?” Irritation at being seen while he was upset, and Sam ignored it.

“We should help,” Sam insisted. “Dean would want us to. I mean, we can’t just let the demon go after…him.”

John’s eyes narrowed at the pronoun. “Did you know anything about that, by the way? About Alex?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably. He spoke hesitantly, all his anger drained away. “Kind of. Dean never said anything, but I found a photo about a week ago.They were sitting next to each other in this park, and... I’ve never seen Dean look like that before.”

“Look like what?”

Sam paused, searching for the right word.

“Happy.”

***

The demon frowned, staring at a spot at Xander’s feet. He seemed more irritated than surprised at Xander’s mostly unharmed state. Xander, on the other hand, was all kinds of surprised. He felt winded, but he had a feeling that it should have been worse. He knew he wouldn’t survive another blast like that, especially since he had no idea how he’d survived the first one intact.

He looked down, to check that the glowy-eyed guy wasn’t setting fire to the floor at his feet. But all he saw was a blurry form.

His eyes focused a little. It was Dean.

Holy crap.

At that moment, the cavalry burst through the door. The hallucination of his ex-boyfriend was lost in the mess of capturing the kidnapper, avioding the black stuff that poured from the body when the demon vacated, and catching Xander when he fell off the wall.

When everything calmed, Xander was left with Willow looking him over for wounds and/or brand new possessions. He couldn’t stop staring at that bit of floor, though, where he’d seen…where he thought he’d seen…

“Willow?” he asked hesitantly. “Can you see anything over there?”

She glanced over, then looked at him like she was suddenly very worried about the state of his brain. “No…”

He kept staring.

“What is it, Xander?” she asked.

“I thought I saw…” He looked over at her, bolstered by a sudden urgency. “Can you look again? Look properly, like… for a ghost.”

An alarmed look crossed her face, and she concentrated on Xander’s bit of floor.

He suddenly knew he wasn’t crazy when she made a surprised noise and hurried across the room. He watched her hands move through the air, as if they were running over a shape. Or a body.

“It’s really him?” he asked quietly.

She looked back at him, her brow furrowed. When she spoke, her voice was worried. “He doesn’t have much time.”

“Oh, God. Wills, if there’s anything you can do, anything at all, please, just help him.”

Within seconds, a glow started around her fingers, and white seeped into her eyes.

***

Coming to should be less painful when you didn’t have a body, Dean decided, as he swam back to what passed for consciousness. But the horrible weakness was gone, and that could only be a good thing.

When he finally managed to open his eyes, he thought he was dreaming. Alex was crouched above him, looking down. Looking at him.

“God, I miss you,” he whispered involuntarily.

There was a sharp breath beside him, but he couldn’t tear his eyes from Xander’s face.

He was alive.

Dean suddenly felt energized, like everything that had happened the past few months had just melted away. God, he felt like he could take on the world if he had to. Alex was alive.

There was a voice talking to him.

“Dean? Dean, can you hear me?”

A redhead blocked his view of Xander, and he blinked up at her.

“Dean, you have to get back to your body, before it’s too late. Go, now!”

Right. Back to his body. Back to his body, so he can get better, and maybe come back real. Come back and make it better.

Once again, he felt himself disappear.

***

Disorientation. That was familiar.

Something hovering over his body, trying to suck his life out through his nose. Not so familiar.

“You get the hell away from me,” he yelled. He faced the thing down, shouting at it to get back.

When he finally made a grab for it, he was shocked to find it actually worked; he caught it for a second, before it threw him off and fled. He chased it, but the hazy freak had some speed under it.

Sucker, he thought.

The frantic bleeping of the monitors in his room only registered when it slowed. Dean caught some technical babble from the doctors, and finally noticed Sammy by the doorway, looking relieved.

Dean came to stand by him. “Don't worry, Sammy. I'm not going anywhere. Alex is alive, and I'm getting that thing before it gets me. It's some kind of spirit, but I could grab it. And if I can grab it, I can kill it.

For a second, Dean could swear Sam actually looked at him. But then his brother looked past him, and with an affectionate backward glance, Dean wandered off down the corridor, hoping the walk would point him in the direction of the evil thing that was sucking his life force.

***

“What do you mean, you felt something?” John demanded.

“I mean it felt like Dean,” Sam replied. “Like he was there again, just out of eyeshot or something. I think he’s getting stronger.”

“Anything's possible,” was his father’s cautious response.

“So he might be getting better?”

John frowned. “Sam, don’t... I hate to say it, but... Don’t get your hopes up. The doctors...”

“Dad, this is Dean,” he argued. “I’m damn well gonna get my hopes up. I’m not giving up on him until he’s cold. And if he’s still around, I’m gonna talk to him.”

He headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” John asked tiredly.

“I gotta pick something up, I'll be back.”

“Wait, Sam,” John called after him. Sam paused in the doorway. “I promise I won't hunt this demon. Not until we know Dean's okay.”

Sam nodded, and left.

***

Dean walked down the hallway with Tessa. She was in the same position he was; chances were, her body would attract that ghost-thing, too.

While he waited, he made conversation to kill time. “I gotta say, I'm impressed.”

“With what?”

“With you. Most people in your spot would be jello right now, but you're taking this pretty well. Maybe a little better than me.”

“Don't get me wrong. I was pretty freaked at first. But now, I don't know. Maybe I'm dealing.”

“So you're okay with dying?” It was hard to believe – she was only in her twenties.

“No, of course not. I just think, whatever's gonna happen's gonna happen. It's out of my control, it's fate.”

“Huh.” Dean pondered it for a second. “Well, that's crap. You always have a choice. You can either roll over and die, or you can keep fighting, no matter what.”

The announcement came over the PA, and Dean ran towards the room. When they called time of death, he suddenly knew what he was dealing with. And he knew that this was one job he couldn’t pull off on his own.

He needed help.

***

He finally gave up looking, and waited for Sam in the room where the body was. His body. He tried not to shudder, but it still freaked him out a little bit.

It didn’t take long. Sam finally showed, and Dean nearly jumped out of his skin when he started talking to the air.

“Hey. I think maybe you're around. And if you are, don't make fun of me for this, but um... there's one way we can talk.”

His brother was a god. And possibly a genius.

Then Dean saw what Sam pulled out of the bag. A ouija board. His brother was an idiot.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he muttered.

“Dean? Dean, are you here?”

“God, I feel like I'm at a slumber party.”

Dean sat opposite his brother, shaking his head. Such a geek.

“All right, Sam. This isn't going to work.”

Sammy had his fingers on the pointer, and Dean figured he’d play along. On the outside chance that this actually paid off.

He concentrated, and slowly managed to slide the little thing over to ‘yes’.

“I'll be damned.”

It was nice to hear the relief in Sam’s laugh. “It's good to hear from you, man. It hasn't been the same without you, Dean.”

Dean smiled back, even though Sammy couldn’t see him. “Damn straight.”

He placed his fingers on the pointer, determined. Sam watched it carefully, as it moved slowly across the board.

Dean wanted to tell him all about Alex, but wasn’t sure if he had the focus for it. The thing in the hospital was probably a little more immediate – Willow would take care of Xander, and Dean could focus on getting his body back.

“H, U, N – Hunt? Are you hunting?”

Slide the pointer back to ‘yes’ – Sammy gets a gold star for spelling.

“This is in the hospital, what you're hunting? Do you know what it is?”

“Jeez, buddy, give a guy a second,” Dean muttered, trying to gather his willpower again.

“What is it?”

Impatient little bastard. Dean focused back on the pointer.

R, E, A, P. He gave up. If that wasn’t enough for Sam, the boy should’ve never gone to college.

“I don't think it's killing people,” he admitted. “I think it's taking them. You know, when their time's just up.”

“A reaper. Dean. Is it after you?” Sam asked.

Dean slid the pointer to ‘yes’ again.

“If it's here naturally,” Sam said slowly, “there's no way to stop it.”

“Yeah, you can't kill death.”

“Man, you're...”

He watched Sam try and find the words. “I'm screwed, Sam. Fuckin’ ironic, right? Just when I find out I got something to live for.”

“No. No, no, no, there's gotta be a way.”

Dean watched from the floor as Sammy stood up and headed out.

“There's gotta be a way. Dad'll know what to do.”

Dean couldn’t tell him not to bother.

***

John pushed open the door to the boiler room, and walked down the dripping hallway. A clear space, and he put down his duffel bag.

He pulled out a box of white chalk and started drawing the symbol on the concrete floor.

***

Dean was a little surprised when Sam came back so soon. Arguments with their father usually took a little longer. The news that their father wasn’t in his room made Dean uneasy, but he soon focused on the journal. Getting alive again was more important than worrying about the old man. It wasn’t like he was worried about Dean.

Looking down at his brother as they leafed through the journal, he murmured, “Thanks for not giving up on me, Sammy.”

Sam’s only response was to turn the page, and under some crap about symbols, Dean saw something that caught his attention. And a few things clicked into place.

“Son of a bitch.”

He left Sam there with the body and stalked off down the corridor, seething.

She was there in the empty room, looking for all the world like a normal, disembodied girl.

“Hi, Dean.”

He wanted to kick her ass, but he restrained himself. “You know, you read the most interesting things. For example, did you know that reapers can alter human perception? I sure didn't. Basically they can make themselves appear however they want. Like, say, a pretty girl. You're much prettier than the last reaper I met.”

She didn’t smile; just looked at him. “I was wondering when you would figure it out.”

“I should have known. That whole ‘accepting fate’ rap of yours is far too laid back for a dead chick. But the mother, and the body, I'm still trying to figure that one out.”

“It's my sandbox, I can make you see whatever I want.”

“What, is this like a turn-on for you?” he asked belligerently. “Toying with me?”

“You didn't give me much choice. You saw my true form and you flipped out. Kinda hurts a girl's feelings. This was the only way I could get you to talk to me.”

“Okay, fine. We're talking. What the hell do you want to talk about?”

“How death is nothing to fear.” He tried not to flinch when she touched his cheek. “It's your time to go, Dean. And you're living on borrowed time already.”

The cold feeling in the pit of his stomach was back.

***

John started the incantation, willing his voice to stay steady. When it came time for the blood, he was glad his hands didn’t shake. The rite completed, he waited.

“What the hell are you doing down here, buddy?” came a voice out of the darkness.

“I can explain,” he began.

“Yeah?” said the guy. “You're going to explain to security. Come on. You follow me.”

John pulled the Colt and cocked it. “Hey. How stupid do you think I am?”

The bastard’s eyes glowed. “You really want an honest answer to that?”

He didn’t move as the demon’s lackeys surrounded him.

“You conjuring me, John,” the demon continued casually. “I'm surprised. I took you for a lot of things. But suicidally reckless wasn't one of them.”

“I could always shoot you,” he offered.

“You could always miss.” The thing laughed. “And you've only got one try, don't'cha? Did you really think you could trap me?”

John knew, then and there, that he had him. He could get what he needed.

“Oh, I don't want to trap you,” he said, and lowered the gun. “I want to make a deal.”

***

A few floors up, Sam was standing over Dean’s body. His brother’s presence was gone again, but he kept talking, trying to feel a little less helpless.

“I don't know how to help you, but I'll keep trying, all right? As long as you keep fighting. I mean, come on, you can't leave me here alone with Dad. We'll kill each other, you know that.” He paused, swallowed hard.

“Dean, you've got to hold on. You can't go, man, not now. We were just starting to be brothers again.

“Can you hear me?”

***

Dean stared out the window, mind racing. He had to find a way to convince her. He knew it was useless, that you couldn’t argue with Death, but he had to try.

He had too much to lose right now.

“Look, I'm sure you've heard this before, but... You've gotta make an exception, you've gotta cut me a break,” he tried.

“Stage three: bargaining.” She wasn’t impressed.

“I'm serious. My family's in danger. See, we're kind of in the middle of this war, and they need me.”

He wasn’t sure if he believed that one himself anymore, and his approach was a little flippant, but he was still surprised at her answer.

“The fight's over.”

“No, it isn't.” It’d never be over.

“It is for you. Dean. You're not the first soldier I've plucked from the field. They all feel the same. They can't leave. Victory hangs in the balance. But they're wrong. The battle goes on without them.”

“My brother. He could die without me.”

She was still unmoved. “Maybe he will, maybe he won't.”

“But what about Alex? He and I never got a chance, and I need to make it right. I’ve only just found out he’s alive, and...”

Appealing to her sense of romance didn’t seem to work, and when she shook her head, it started to sink in.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” she said. “Nothing you can do about it. It's an honorable death. A warrior's death.

“There's no such thing as an honorable death," he replied angrily. "My corpse is going to rot in the ground and the people I love are going to die! No. I'm not going with you, I don't care what you do.”

“Well, like you said, there's always a choice. I can't make you come with me. But you're not getting back in your body. And that's just facts. So yes, you can stay. You'll stay here for years. Disembodied, scared, and over the decades it'll probably drive you mad. Maybe you'll even get violent.”

“What are you saying?”

She looked at him like she’d expected better. “Dean, how do you think angry spirits are born? They can't let go and they can't move on. And you're about to become one. The same thing you hunt.”

He hadn’t thought of that.

***

John kept his gaze steady, trying to ignore the minions that circled behind him.

“It's very unseemly, making deals with devils. How do I know this isn't just another trick?” the thing asked.

“It's no trick. I will give you the Colt and the bullet, but you've got to help Dean. You've got to bring him back.”

“Why, John, you're a sentimentalist. If only your boys knew how much their daddy loved them.”

He tried not to rise to the bait, sticking to the terms of the deal. “It's a good trade. You care a hell of a lot more about this gun than you do Dean.”

It shook its head. “Don't be so sure. He killed some people very special to me. And his little boyfriend is tougher than I thought, let me tell you.” The thing paused, a smile twisting its face. “Did you know that as soon as he was able, Dean abandoned you all to go try and save his other half from my evil clutches?”

“What?” John asked, frowning.

The demon made a dismissive gesture. “His soul, or spirit, or whatever. Instead of wandering around here, trying to get you two to finally pay attention to him, he went straight to his precious Alex.” The name dripped with derision. “They make quite a pair. Such a cute couple.”

He couldn’t help tensing, and the damn thing noticed.

It chuckled. “Ooh, latent homophobia. You sure you want to trade that Colt for his faggot ass?”

“Yeah, I am. He’s my son, I don’t care who he’s in love with,” he replied.

“Poster-boy for PFLAG, then, ain’t ya? What if I don’t want to help? He dies, I get to take out his boyfriend, which means he failed. I like that,” it confided.

“I will kill you before I let that happen.”

“There is an alternative.”

Finally getting down to business, John thought. “What, then?” he ground out.

“Dean and his boyfriend can be dealt with. They aren’t that much of a threat. And neither is your other son. You know the truth, right? About Sammy? And the other children?”

For the first time, John took his eyes off the thing, shamed. “Yeah. I've known for a while.”

“But Sam doesn't, does he? You've been playing dumb.”

God, this fucking thing knew every damn thing about them. He was so sick of playing its games. “Look, can you even bring Dean back? Or are you just playing with me?”

“No, I can’t. But I know someone who can. It's not a problem.”

“Good. Before I give you the gun, I'm going to want to make sure that Dean's okay. With my own eyes.”

“Oh, John, I'm offended. Don't you trust me?” the thing actually fluttered its eyelashes at him.   
John shook his head, barely restraining himself from rolling his eyes. “Fine.” Bastard sounded bored.

“So we have a deal,” John confirmed.

But it shook its head. “No, John, not yet. You still need to sweeten the pot.”

“With what?”

“There's something else I want, as much as that gun. Maybe more.”

***

Dean wanted to edge away as she touched him, stroked his hair.

“It’s time to put the pain behind you,” she said.

He couldn’t say he wasn’t tempted. The past year had been... There weren’t even words for it. He was past all of his limits, didn’t think he could take much more. And he was tired.

“And go where?” he asked.

“Sorry. I can't give away the big punchline. Moment of truth. No changing your mind later. So what's it going to be?”

God, she sounded so normal. It weirded him out.

Moment of truth. Could he actually, willingly leave? But how could he stay, when he knew what he’d become? Dean wasn’t one to whinge about unfairness – it was stupid to bitch when the universe never made promises – but this kind of choice was no choice at all. Fuck, those brief, sweet moments of hope...it was all for nothing.

As he turned to look at her, the lights stared flickering. On the edge of his hearing, he could barely make out some kind of buzz.

***

A red-haired figure slipped into Dean’s room. She was slightly fuzzy around the edges, as if she wasn’t really there. She paused, making sure Sam wasn’t going to react to her presence, but he looked right through her. She went over to the bed, and started whispering. After a few moments, her red hair turned a brilliant white, and she leaned down to kiss Dean on the forehead.

There was a surge of power as her lips made contact with his skin.

Sam had been watching the bed. He frowned – he could feel something. A hazy form suddenly took shape, leaning over his brother. He jumped back in surprise, yelled, but it was gone.

***

Dean watched the lights flicker. “What are you doing that for?” he asked dully.

She frowned. “I'm not doing it.”

She turned her head in the general direction of Dean’s room with a surprised look on her face.

“Oh. That’s interesting.”

“What the hell?”

She turned back to him. “Today's your lucky day, Dean.”

She faded away, and all Dean could do was stand there, totally confused. Suddenly, he was yanked backwards, and treated once again to the unique sensation of disappearing.

***

Sam was scanning the room, trying desperately to open all of his senses in case whatever it was came back. He may not have got particularly evil vibes off it, but that didn’t mean it was good.

He almost had a heart attack when his brother moved, gasping for air around the tube in his throat.

“Dean?”

Sam raced to the door to call for help.

***

Down in the boiler room, John tried not to jump when his cellphone rang. The demon's flunkies were gone, and they were back to staring each other down while John tried to convince himself that this thing would actually honor the bargain it wanted to make.

The phone stopped. It started again almost immediately.

“You gonna get that?” the thing asked, trying for nonchalance. John could tell it was irritated.

He pulled it out and snapped it open. “Yeah?”

Sam’s voice came clearly down the line. “Dean’s awake.”

John found himself listening to a dial tone. He looked at the demon. “We didn’t have a deal yet, did we? So that wasn’t you,” he concluded.

He had a brief second to register that the thing looked annoyed, before it snarled and flung an arm up. He flew backwards, hitting the boiler with a force that winded him. By some miracle, he still had the gun, and without hesitating, he raised it and fired.

Black ichor streamed out of the man’s mouth at the same moment.

As it flowed away, John stared in horror. Crumpling to the floor, he flung the now useless Colt away and howled in disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from a song by My Chemical Romance.


	6. Thumbing My Way

Dean gave the doctor an uneasy look. The man looked far too much like he wanted to cut Dean up and study him.

“I can't explain it,” the doc said. “The edema's almost fully reduced overnight. It’s stabilized, and at this rate you could make a full recovery within a few days. Not only that, but your internal contusions are healing surprisingly well. Your vitals are good, and you’ll be weak for a while, but you must have some kind of angel watching over you.”

Couldn’t argue there. “Thanks, doc,” Dean said, and watched the white coat leave. He turned to Sam. “So you said a Reaper was after me?”

“Yeah,” Sam replied, unable to keep the grin off his face completely.

“How'd I ditch it?” Dean asked, frowning. Sam shrugged.

“You got me. Dean, you really don't remember anything?”

It was his turn to shrug. Except it hurt just a bit, and he grunted. “I think I had dream or something, but I can’t remember all of it.” Floating around the hospital. Alex, he’d dreamed about Alex. He remembered that much, but the rest was a blur.

There was a knock, and Dean looked up to see his father hovering in the doorway.

“How you feeling?”

“Fine, I guess. I'm alive.” He smiled briefly, but couldn’t quite bring himself to meet John’s eyes.

“Well, that's what matters.”

Sam wasn’t letting them get away with all the politeness, though. He rounded on John. “Where were you last night?”

Their father hesitated. “I…nowhere. I thought I had something to take care of, but it took care of itself,” he said, watching Dean.

“Well, that's specific,” Sam snorted. “Did you go after the demon?”

“No.” Dean was pretty sure that was a lie. He could always tell with Dad. Apparently, Sam was also picking up the necessary skills.

“You know, why don't I believe you right now?”

“I…Look, Sam, I don’t want to get into this now. Dean, what happened?”

When in doubt, change the subject. Dean wasn’t quite sure what the new issue was, though. “What?”

“You were dying. The doctors knew it, Sam could feel it. What happened?”

Wow, that was blunt. He shifted a little under the scrutiny. “How the hell am I supposed to know?”

And Sammy backed him up. Again. God, the kid deserved a trophy.

“Leave him alone. Jesus, he’s just woken up out of a coma, and you’re questioning him? I was the one who was here.”

“Huh?” What was that supposed to mean?

John caught it, too. “Should I be questioning you, then?”

Sam was about to respond angrily, but paused. He frowned, and Dean could tell he was unsure about something.

“Maybe. I thought I saw…”

“What is it, Sam?” he asked gently.

Sam looked down at him. “A white light. Corny, right?”

Dean snorted. “Yeah.”

But Sam went on. “And I swear your angel had red hair.”

At that, Dean looked up at him. “What?” he asked sharply.

“You know any red-haired angels, boy?” John interjected.

And if the bits of his dream that were floating back in were anything to go by, he did. “I…But that was…”

“What, Dean?”

“I thought I was dreaming or something. There was this girl, she…”

“A redhead?” Sam asked, even though it wasn’t really a question.

“Yeah." Dean frowned. “She’s one of Alex’s friends.” She did this? After everything he did to her best friend?

And that statement caused quite the awkward pause. Dean looked up only to see the dark look on his father’s face.

“About that. Why the hell didn’t you ever say anything?”

Dean abruptly felt trapped. “What was I supposed to say, Dad? I’m in love with a guy and moving to San Francisco?” It came out angry, but angry was better than hurt.

John replied with this bitter little chuckle. “That might have been a start, yeah.”

“You’re angry with him about this?” Sam protested. “I can’t believe you. It doesn’t even make a difference.”

Dean ignored him, focusing on their father. He had some bitterness of his own to laugh about. “Look, Dad, I’m so sorry if I disappointed you, but I can’t change the past. Or how I feel. You hate me, you want to disown me over this, fine. I just don’t care anymore.”

John had the decency to look shocked. “Dean…” he began.

“No. I’ve had enough. I’ve given up too much, and this time I want…I can’t…” His rant was cut off when he suddenly forgot how to breathe. He started to feel lightheaded, and even weaker. None of them had noticed the frantic bleeping of the machines he was still attached to, and John and Sam looked a little startled when a nurse rushed in.

She checked him over, and glared at his family.

“I don’t care what family dramas you have going on, Dean needs rest. He’s completely exhausted, and his health is still at risk, so if you don’t want to make him sicker, I suggest you leave. Now.”

With a reprimand like that, they really had no choice. Dean avoided Sam’s eyes, and let the nurse fuss over him. He was relieved to feel that shocky emotional numbness descending again, although it did nothing to ease the sick tension in his stomach.

Then the nurse injected something into his IV line, and a different kind of numbness stole over him. He decided passing out was probably the best idea he’d had lately, and welcomed the blankness.

***

Sam and John retreated to the corridor. They watched silently as an exhausted Dean fell into a drug-induced sleep.

Sam finally couldn’t hold it in any longer. “I can’t believe you picked a fight with him. He almost died.” How many times did he have to say it before it sunk in?

“I know, Sam. I’m just…”

John may have looked sheepish, but in Sam’s eyes, what just happened was pretty inexcusable, even for him.

“Just nothing,” he ground out. “He nearly died, and as soon as they let us back in there, you’re gonna tell him how much he means to you, gay or not. Otherwise I will never speak to you again.”

That seemed to make an impact. John stared at him for a second, then smiled briefly.

“You giving me orders, boy?” Sam just glared at him, and John turned away. “Yeah, I know. I didn’t mean to pick a fight.”

Sam paused, frowning. The man was actually fidgeting. “What, then?” he asked, lowering his tone a little. “What the hell is wrong with it? So Alex is a guy, it doesn’t change anything about Dean.”

“I know, Sam. And that’s not it, anyway.”

“Well, what?”

His father hesitated, looking uneasily at the busy hallway. He gestured for Sam to follow, and they found an empty room. John crossed to the centre as Sam pulled the door closed. He stalled for a minute, then looked back at Sam.

“You were right. I did call up the demon.” Sam opened his mouth, ready to start yelling, but froze when his father continued.

“I was going to trade the Colt, get him to fix Dean for it. Get him to bring my son back. Even when he said the Colt wasn’t enough, that he wanted my life as well, I was going to do it. Dean deserves...more. More than the life I've given him, more than fight after fight. He deserves better than this.”

Sam was speechless.

“Then you called. The Demon knew the bargain was over, and he came at me. I…I fired the Colt. And I missed.”

“Oh, Dad…” Sam could only watch as his father practically fell apart in front of his eyes.

“I failed,” John said, and the words sounded like they hurt.

***

Visiting hours were almost over. Sam had been at the hospital on and off all day, watching Dean sleep. He’d rented a laptop, and dug through countless files before he found what he was looking for. It hadn’t been easy – Sunnydale records were completely wiped out, and the demon hadn’t exactly shown his father anything practical. But Dean had been awake enough at one point to tell Sam a birthday. That with a name had been enough.

Sam sat by Dean’s bed, angling the laptop so he could see it. “So I checked out the usual, and I got a hit on an apartment in Cleveland. He’s only owned it for about a month, and earlier than that there was nothing.”

“Cleveland,” Dean repeated, looking at the screen. Sam watched him closely, hating how withdrawn he was.

“Yeah. So, I thought we could head over there. You know, once you’re feeling better.”

“Sure, as soon as I’m better.” Dean looked down, fiddling with the edge of his blanket.

Sam cleared his throat awkwardly. “Has Dad been by?”

“Nope.”

“He’s probably sorting out the car. Look, Dean, I know what happened yesterday was…I think he just needs some time.”

Dean still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Yeah, I guess he does. It’s fine, Sam.”

Sam was about to protest, to say that it damn well wasn’t fine, when one of the orderlies came in with Dean’s pills.

“You should go, Sammy. A few of these bad boys, and I’m out like a light.”

Sam smiled. At least Dean was making an effort to act normal. “Sure, I’ll let you get some rest. See you tomorrow?” he asked, quickly packing away the computer.

Dean just smiled at him sadly. “Bye.”

***

Dean woke up again a few hours later. It was dark, but still early, maybe seven-thirty or eight. The orderlies would be in with more medication in an hour, and he knew the pills would make him sleep. But he’d slept enough.

Determined, he pulled back the blankets and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself to his feet, and felt a deep rush of satisfaction when he didn’t immediately fall over, like he did when he’d tried it yesterday. Willow was a goddess.

As he took his first, tentative steps across the room, he wondered what you might give a Jewish witch for Christmas.

Finally confident he wasn’t going to fall on his ass, he made his way down to the nurses’ station. He ignored the little twinge of relief when she actually noticed he was there.

“Hi, I’d like to check out, please?”

***

“I cannot advise this course of action,” the doctor stated firmly.

But Dean wasn’t about to be swayed. “You don’t have to. Against doctor’s orders, or whatever. I’ll sign all the waivers you want.”

“Son, whatever problems you have with your family, surely it’s not worth the risk.”

“With all due respect, Doc, you have no idea what’s really going on. Look, I’m going to Cleveland, and I’ll check in there if I have to. I’ll be careful, I just…need to go.”

“Don’t you want to wait until morning?”

“Nope. Where do I sign?”

The doctor sighed. “Here.”

Dean waited for a while, til they dug up his ‘personal effects’. When the nurse returned, Dean grimaced at the state of his shirt, but his jeans had thankfully escaped unscathed. He also found a credit card in his wallet that might still have some mileage on it. His necklace was there, and it was the first thing he put on. The doc prescribed some pills for infection, or whatever, and told him he was free to go.

So, dressed in his jeans, the same hospital t-shirt he’d been wearing since he woke up, and his slightly bloodstained leather jacket, he stepped out the front door of the hospital. Taking a few deep breaths, he walked away.

It probably wasn’t a good idea to drive. After all, he’d just recovered from a life-threatening brain injury. However, he had no other way to get to Cleveland. Not fast, anyway – he could get a bus, but it’d probably take three days. He’d have to deal with his family to get someone to drive him.

Flying wasn’t even an option. Besides, he’d need an ID that matched the name on his credit card, and he didn’t have time to make one. Same goes for renting a car. He could steal one, but he might get caught.

In the end, he’d decided he just have to not get caught.

There was a bar just down the block from the hospital. Which was weird, and a little ironic, but Dean tried not to think about it. He picked out a car in the parking lot, something boring in a dark-coloured, not-too-new sedan. He was about to break the window when he noticed it was actually unlocked. The gods were smiling on him.

It took a few seconds to hot-wire, a few more to check the gas – almost full, very nice – and he was easing out onto the street.

Two blocks down, he pulled into a gas station and bought a road map. Good idea to have some clue where he was going. After a few minutes studying the map, he pulled a u-turn and hit the gas.

He felt like he was going home.

***

The road passed in a blur. County signs and road markers passed in flashes, and Dean hit exhaustion point after about five hours. He was somewhere in Iowa, and pulled over to the shoulder, leftover sedatives swimming in his system. He knew he should get some sleep, but he substituted it with a walk around the car, and a few very deep breaths of cold, country air. The pull of getting to Alex, of seeing him, alive, was way too strong.

He poured himself back into the driver's seat, feeling like his muscles were moulding themselves to it, and started the engine again. He yawned, and promised himself he'd stop for coffee the first chance he got.

Dean drove steadily through the night, then that pre-dawn time that sometimes seems bleaker than midnight. At some point, it hit him that Sam and John probably didn’t even know he was gone yet. As the sun started to rise, he took another moment out of the car, to try and relax the headache behind his eyes. The fresh air helped again, and he kept the window open as he drove out.

By the time he hit the edge of Cleveland, he was past noticing anything but blacktop. He’d spaced to the point where he couldn’t’ve told anyone anything about Ohio scenery if they'd had a gun to his head. Just a little bit further, he told himself, as he slowed to pass through the suburbs. He stopped again, this time to buy a Cleveland city road map, and wondered briefly where he could ditch the car. Alex’s address, which he’d scrawled on the back of his hand as soon as Sammy left, was in the north-west of the city centre, and Dean’s map told him it was walking distance from a train station. Time for public transport, then.

He carefully wiped his prints off the car, and left it in a commuter parking lot in some suburban station. He stared blindly out the window as the train rushed towards the city.

Then he was standing in front of Alex’s door.

Taking a deep breath, he knocked. When no-one responded, and there was no sound from inside the apartment, he realized Alex wasn’t home.

Trying to suppress the surge of disappointment, he turned and leaned back on the door. He slid down, glad to be off his feet, and rested his head on his knees. He’d have to wait, then.

He was still sitting there when Xander turned up almost an hour later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from a song by Pearl Jam.


End file.
